


noir ou blanc

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, BDSM, Blowjobs, Confession, Dom/sub, Edging, Handfeeding, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Reluctant Sadist, Service Submission, Switching, awkward virgins, identity consent issues, probably some other stuff because this is pretty much my giant idfest hhhhh, switch!Javert, switch!Valjean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert is a switch. He wants to dom the hell out of Valjean but is also the biggest sub in the universe when it comes to Madeleine. The entirety of his time in M-sur-M can therefore be summed up as "confused boner." (I can't write summaries I'm sorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Javert slides into the confessional booth at top speed and pants, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

He shuffles in his seat during the priest’s blessing, tries to more comfortably fold his long frame into the tiny booth, then bows his head and attempts to compose himself.

“Lord, I know you are a just god,” he begins quickly, staring at his feet. “I come to you in faith to make amends. It has been eight days since my last confession. I have had – well.” He clears his throat. “Impure thoughts.”

Immediately he flushes and is glad both of the darkness of the confessional and the slatted screen between him and the priest. Impure does not even remotely begin to cover it. These thoughts had been depraved to the fullest extent even before – He cannot possibly blush harder so instead he ducks his head almost to his chest. His ears pound with blood.

“Impure thoughts about a…” His fingers drum on his knees. Is there a way to say it? _The mayor. A man. A figure of authority, a good man. But he riles my suspicions and forces me to watch for the slightest sign that –_ “Well, one to whom I am not married, to be sure.” It is not the whole truth, in fact it is the narrowest possible slice of it, but the whole truth feels almost too large and ridiculous to allow out of his mouth in one piece. Javert breaks it down further.

“Someone who is extremely unsuitable – and a superior. I have known my place, until now –” _Beneath the Mayor. I have wanted to be beneath the Mayor._ _I have wanted those powerful arms to force me to my knees. I have desired marks, bonds, that would make me his. He would show me how much I was less than his goodness, worthy and fit only to serve._ Only the barest remnant of propriety keeps his tongue in check.

“Well, I have entertained thoughts of being...used at their discretion, not them at mine.” He makes a helpless gesture. “Of course the desire has been distracting but I know it to be a foolish venture, and I know it will never happen, and he would never –” Damn. Well, it is truthful, at least, and does repentance not depend on full disclosure? Still it is too much. He does not know how to say any of this politely. “But now I have begun to think of him in extremely compromising positions, and I hope you are aware of my meaning, Father.” _Fucked and loose on the floor, back arched, begging_. He coughs. "Positions initiated by myself, and entirely for the – pleasure – of myself.”

Javert presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “He resembles another. I cannot help it. He did something today that made me wonder. And now all I can think of is – well.” _The crook with the strength to lift a cart like that, bent under the lash, the cunning beast brought to heel. I thought of him in chains. The Mayor. I thought of fucking him into a sweet chaos of noise and sweat and tears. I would behave in such a way to a superior, I would wish to hold dominion over him and overturn everything I stand for…_ Javert exhales sharply, heart hammering. “It shames me, Father, Lord forgive me, I – I am afraid of what I might do.”

“That…you might give into your lusts?” the priest asks from the other side after a moment, sounding rattled. Javert scowls, briefly forgetting himself.

“No, lust is one thing! It is the insubordinate nature of my desires that is truly bothering me!” he snaps. “That I would think of a figure of authority in such a way is bad enough, yes, but that in my lust I would put myself above him – that will not do!” The last comes out more hysterical than he would like.

There is a shocked silence, broken only by the soft rustle of clothing as Javert’s fists tighten imperceptibly on his knees. “I seek repentance,” he says briskly, and the priest assigns him prayers. Lots of them. He wonders if they will do any good.

In his rooms he kneels on hardwood floors and tries not to think of how it would feel to kneel in front of Madeleine. He tries and he tries and mumbles the prayers dutifully even though he is not much convinced of his own repentance. By the end he is too exhausted to be much of a degenerate, anyway. He falls asleep still muttering his rosary.

In the morning he feels refreshed and somewhat cleansed and it heartens him. He breakfasts and goes to work and makes his reports and is entirely and completely unaroused by the Mayor’s rich and gentle voice, his well-shaped shoulders. He stands a good four feet back from the Mayor’s desk and fixes his gaze on a random corner as he speaks and feels no worry at all.

The Mayor is pleased by whatever simple and boring thing Javert has just told him and gives praise, and Javert can feel a ludicrous grin beginning to bloom at the corner of his mouth. He clamps it down and nods tightly in response, his heart caught between rising and sinking. Then Madeleine gets up to go and claps him on the shoulder. His hand is very warm even through Javert’s coat and shirt. Javert sets his mouth in a grim line and hates each and every one of the awful, moony thoughts that spring unbidden into his head.

He watches himself follow the Mayor around all that day like some overgrown sideburned puppy and seethes at every unnecessarily endearing thing the Mayor does that prompts unwelcome aches in his chest. It is not as though the Mayor were even practical about his kindnesses. Certainly Javert does not deserve it. He wants to deserve it, though. He longs to prove himself so badly.

 

A few days later, he happens to pass by the factory and the Mayor is helping the foreman carry a crate inside. There is a grim set to his face, the faintest sheen of sweat, and for a moment Javert transplants a beard atop that face and hardens the lines around the eyes and there he is. Valjean. Grunting under a heavy load, toiling away, that body under those businessman’s clothes he knows _he knows_ it is as muscled as that of a man who has labored in the galleys for years on end, he is so sure of it –

Madeleine drops the crate to the floor and the crash startles Javert from his reverie but not before an image flashes before his eyes: Valjean crouched at his feet, breathing hard, scarred body locked in chains and mouth gagged tight, an erection tenting the rags around his hips. And the face, twisted in a warped scowl, so similar in appearance to the face of the admirable and beloved man now straightening up before him and wiping his brow. The shame bubbles up inside him.

“Javert?” the Mayor inquires. “Are you all right?” The voice is too much like and unlike Valjean’s. There are the sways of notes and pitch that make him want to sit at the Mayor’s feet and bring him reports and kiss love and attention into every inch of his body and there are the slight turns of phrase and inflection that turn the Mayor into a man he would like nothing better than to fling into a wall and handcuff and fuck. Javert silently curses himself, then runs out of curses for himself. He is thoroughly done with damned stupid men who insist on confusing him so. “Yes,” says Javert. “I am merely –” If only there were a word for “lost in a flood of utter bewilderment and self-loathing,” then he might have a truthful response. “Fine,” he says lamely. Everything is terrible.

He goes home and collapses face-first on his bed, aware of the shameful discomfort in his trousers.

“I do not understand what I am feeling,” he mumbles into his pillow.

The pillow offers no advice.

He turns on his back and prays silently. Then he prays not silently. He finds himself praying even as he gives in and opens his flies and takes his cock in efficient hand. Jumbled and incomprehensible images flicker before his eyes of Valjean – the Mayor – Valjean – Javert righteous above, Javert penitent below –he bucks his hips up towards the ceiling, his strokes turning hurried and frenzied, need jolting through him. Broken words keep spilling from his mouth, mixed prayers and blasphemies and fragments of contradicting names, and he tries not to hear them. Coming is a relief. It stops him from thinking too much.

His prayers remain unanswered. Everything infuriates him. He cannot ignore his suspicions, cannot simply ignore each new clue that points to the possibility that the Mayor is the convict Valjean, but of course he cannot ignore how much he wants Madeleine to continue giving him those looks of delighted approval that flutter low in his stomach, and he certainly cannot ignore how the possibility that Madeleine is Valjean also excites him. Whether one way or another, this man sends a delicious tingle down the base of his spine. It is thoroughly unseemly.

 

The incident with the prostitute is like having cold water splashed on his face. The argument had been polite enough and then the Mayor’s expression goes cold and stern and there is a harshness to that voice that rattles him. It is one of those things outside the man’s character that he watches for and yet it reminds him not entirely of Valjean but rather a third entity, the Mayor to the extreme, the iron authority he held that had until now been concealed in layers of kindness and charisma. The blast of disapproval in that voice is pure command; it seems to bypass his brain and go straight to his limbs. Before Javert knows it he is backing down. His treacherous body is walking away. It is a good five minutes before he can think clearly again, and then he is furious.

He is done with this man, done with the conflicting double lusts that each would have been bad enough on their own. He writes his report that night, drawing on all of the details that he can no longer pretend were only collected out of a policeman’s duty. He writes about Madeleine lifting the cart off Fauchelevent and hates how his cock twitches even at the memory. He denounces the Mayor, and it is too easy to do. He does not feel guilty. He is glad to finally be forever rid of acting the damn duckling instead of doing his duty as an officer of the law.

In his bed Javert jerks his cock swiftly and savagely forces Valjean down again and again in his mind, blots out the memories of the kindness in the Mayor’s gaze with the wrath he remembers seeing in Valjean’s eyes at Toulon, fills those cunning prisoner’s eyes with desire and sets that prisoner’s mouth to work on his prick. He comes absurdly quickly to that fantasy. It is a sign of how low he has stooped in this time that he feels no shame at debasing himself, only relief that tonight at least his depravity was reasonably coherent and the object of his desire was recognizably a single person. 

Madeleine is 24601, he thinks to himself. It is true, I am right, I have been just. This is correct. He does not feel guilty at all.

 

It is six weeks later. He was wrong. And once again Madeleine manages to flummox him. Javert is staring at the floor after his confession, awaiting his long-deserved punishment and dismissal, when a warm hand touches his jaw and brings his face up so he is gazing into the Mayor’s. He drops his eyes again.

“Javert,” says the Mayor, and Javert looks up. He cannot believe he could ever have thought this was Valjean. How could he? There is not the slightest hint of hatred in this man. To his horror Javert feels his eyes prickle with tears.

“Monsieur Mayor,” he says, “forgive me. And send me away. Please. It is punishment enough that I am sent from you. I have done you a great wrong. I deserve it.” Taller he may be, but Javert has always felt infinitely small beside Madeleine’s presence.

Something like mingled amazement and pleasure and pity flits across Madeleine’s face. Then he brings his face forward and kisses Javert. It is horribly gentle and it bewilders him initially with how soft a man’s mouth can be before he is completely overthrown by the larger fact that Madeleine is kissing him. Him! He does not deserve this, not an insubordinate fool, he –

Javert breaks away. Or tries to. His hands are disloyal. They seem to have found their way to the Mayor’s shoulders and do not want to leave. He tears his hands away and clasps them behind his back but now his mouth is unwilling. It has fallen open and now Madeleine is kissing him further. It is unimaginably good. He wonders if the Mayor sees this as a punishment. Clearly the Mayor desires to kiss him and fulfilling the Mayor’s desires is perhaps acceptable for making amends.

Javert tries to make it a punishment. He tries not to find it so pleasing to be kissed. It is embarrassing how quickly that effort fails. It begins and ends in the same fraction of a second. Madeleine moves his tongue against his and Javert makes a disgustingly desperate noise. Madeleine pulls his head back and smiles and Javert thinks he might collapse. His head is frantic with ways that he might make further recompense. What would the Mayor want? What could he possibly want from Javert? He is suddenly and utterly aware of how little experience he has in these matters. The kiss has sent his mind spooling through memories of bawdy jokes and whores in alleys and various individuals he has arrested for public indecency. Does the Mayor want Javert’s hand around his cock? His mouth? To open Javert with a thick finger – Javert becomes very aware of his own hardness and hopes the Mayor does not notice.

But the man is damnably perceptive. “Javert,” the Mayor murmurs, glancing knowingly at the fork of his trousers, and Javert shivers in shame, drops to his knees, bends until his forehead is just touching the tips of Madeleine’s boots. “Monsieur,” he moans. He is ready to do anything. His willingness terrifies him.

He should not have worried. The Mayor crouches, and Javert feels a touch on the back of his shoulder. The touch is very chaste. It seems distracted somehow. Mingled relief and dejection war within him.

“I want nothing from you, Javert,” the Mayor says. “Not your dismissal, not your humiliation. I choose how I may respond to being wronged, and this is what I choose. You have done your duty, it is service enough, and I commend you. It would please me to see you continue in the force.”

How did this man know precisely the right things to say to turn Javert into a willing mess?

He straightens up, makes his bow, and leaves. He keeps his eyes from the Mayor’s face.

 

Again. Again. The rage is flush in his body. It is ecstasy.

He was right, in the end. Madeleine was nothing. The power he held over Javert: nothing. He is only somewhat humiliated by knowing he would have, in that moment, done quite literally anything to please the man. The mortification is thoroughly tempered by seeing Valjean sitting at the woman’s bedside and knowing he sees only, clearly, Valjean. The Mayor has been burnt away, his artifice and lies all exposed, flimsy as rice paper; it is an awful relief, now, to know that the kiss meant nothing but the vile mockery of a convict.

Valjean turns. Javert meets his eyes and it is ecstasy, he can barely contain his jubilation, it is so fully Valjean that sits there – the world has narrowed, become condensed, and Valjean is more than Valjean, he is the embodiment of the running prisoner, the fallen soul, and Javert is less of a man now than the essence of the law. These are the roles into which they slot perfectly. It is as it should be. Without confusion and without doubts. All along, there has only been one road to follow. His thoughts are clear and burn like ice.

“Come along!” he says. Valjean does not move. There is a set to the convict’s shoulders that faintly unnerves him. It does not remind him of Madeleine, he tells himself. Madeleine was a lie. He steps closer and repeats, “Come along, I said!” filling his voice with all the power that Valjean took from him ( _had received, was given willingly_ , says a small but treacherous voice in his mind.) Rage overtakes him.

He grips Valjean by the collar. Valjean does not resist, and it fills him both with exultation and fury to see the man lowering his eyes, in his proper place – Javert’s face is very close now. He brings it in closer. There is a tiny bit of light falling in Valjean’s eyes; it illuminates hopelessness and despair and the beginnings of a spark of surprise as Javert keeps their faces near, breathes hard and watches Valjean’s expression change.

Javert kisses him. It is only a kiss by the loosest definition of two mouths meeting; other than that, it bears more resemblance to a hungry man making the most of a soft fruit, perhaps a peach, sucking and worrying at the pulp. It is sloppy and vicious and made worse by how he has no idea what he is doing; he bites Valjean’s lip half by accident, haphazardly swirls his tongue, tastes blood and the strong animal taste of the other man’s mouth. His knuckles are white on Valjean’s collar. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Valjean’s hands making helpless little motions by his sides and the jolt of triumph at that goes straight to his groin. His mouth, still pressed against Valjean’s, twists into a grin.

Valjean breaks his mouth free and fixes him with that glare, that prisoner’s glare, _oh_ but he has waited years for this. He has longed to see those eyes look up at him with the hot rage in them now. It is the appropriate reaction of a prisoner to his master. His breath is ragged in his throat. The desire almost frightens him; they are both shaking. After a moment Valjean bows his head. A dangerous man, body and soul hardened from years of imprisonment, now bowing his head to the law, his posture concomitant with a rabbit finally caught in the wolf’s jaws. The tableau is perfect. Javert drinks in the sight, plasters it on his heart, and tells himself, _there, this is what you do this for; the righteous will have their reward and this is it._

Valjean’s bearing is still too noble, somehow, even dangling from Javert’s fist. Javert hates it. The hate itches in his shoulders, curls his fists tighter. He longs to tear away that dignity and impress on him their right and proper places. Frustrated urges to slam Valjean to the floor and ride him like a beast of burden rear up in his throat. He restrains himself. He flicks his gaze down to Valjean’s crotch and Valjean looks up and swallows. “Please, Javert,” he begins.

“You will address me as Monsieur Inspector!” Javert snaps. He is not where that came from. He is drunk on triumph, intoxicated; that glance down at Valjean’s trousers had revealed a very incriminating bulge.

“24601,” he says, “you will come with me now.”

“Ja –” Valjean drops his eyes again. The helplessness in Valjean’s face is beautiful. “Monsieur Inspector,” he mutters. “I beg you, I…” Javert feels a hand tentatively clutch the fork of his trousers and it is too much. A jolt runs through him, his hips jerk forward, and he has come with a strangled moan in his trousers, the seed seeping through to dampen Valjean’s palm.

He collects himself in time to see Valjean’s shocked expression. Desire ebbs from his mind to be replaced by mortification and he quickly shoves the man’s hand away, fumbles with his coat so it hangs better to hide the stain. Then he shifts his grip to the back of the man’s collar. “ _Now_ , 24601,” he growls, desperately hoping his embarrassment is not obvious, and tugs him to the door.

Valjean takes every step to the station with Javert’s fist clenched tight at the back of his neck. He does not resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess you can probably tell but I started reading the Brick so this is a bit more book-inspired than the last thing I wrote. Which still needs to be updated but this fic has kind of been devouring my time lately so uh yeah. There's more of this being written too! 
> 
> (I still can't believe this is the longest thing I've written since maybe middle school)
> 
> (also seriously lemme know if there's stuff I should tag or stuff I've cocked up bc I am an inexperienced silly and am drawing entirely on my own confused feelings re: switchiness and submission and things)
> 
> (but wow this was incredibly fun to write)


	2. Chapter 2

The Seine roils far below his feet.

“What are you doing?” he hears.

There is a very long moment when Javert wonders whether he is, in fact, in Hell already, that perhaps he has no need to jump, that eternal torment clearly already exists on the mortal plane. He shuts his eyes and raises his face heavenward. “What does it look like, Valjean,” he sighs.

There is a very faint scuffing noise. Javert opens his eyes a crack. Valjean leans on the parapet beside him, mirroring his pose, gazing out into the fog.

“I would not presume,” Valjean says. He is awkwardly casual and trying too hard to be cautious, and inwardly some part of Javert laughs hysterically; _it is too late for caution_ , he thinks, _I am broken now_. “But you seem agitated. And not quite like yourself.”

Now Javert does laugh, choked and awful. He leans his upper body out over the edge slightly, feels the pull of the whirlpool below, the longing for oblivion. “Yes, that is very true. How remarkably perceptive you are, Valjean.”

There is a pause. “You left. I thought you were intending to arrest me, Monsieur Inspector.”

“ _No_ ,” Javert chokes. “Do not call me that – you do not deserve – I am not –” He swallows the lump in his throat. “I cannot,” he hisses. “I will not, I cannot, there, shall we be done with it? Leave me. Leave me be.”

“Javert, then.” Warmth envelops Javert’s hand. He blinks his eyes open in surprise. “I will not go,” Valjean continues, holding Javert’s hand in his own, “until you understand, Javert, there is _no need_ , I do not understand what sort of madness is taking you –”

“It is a madness of – of you,” Javert spits in reply. “It is very appropriate to your –” He waves his free hand in an incoherent gesture that he hopes can convey a sort of essence of Valjean. Judging by Valjean’s mystified expression, it does not work.

Javert shakes his head. “I do not know where you fit,” he says, and it is like lancing a wound; everything tumbles out. “I look at you and it is like you are – you hold two men within you, like drawings on parchment paper laid atop one another. And one of them is who you were in Montreuil and one of them is who you were in Toulon, who I thought you were all along, but now it seems there is more truth to your life as the Mayor than I thought and that frightens me, it is terrifying to think I have tried to treat you as a man you are not – that the justice I have been meting out has had no basis in reality, has held no truth, all this time!” He gulps a breath and tries to slow down. “If I arrest you, I am damned. If I do not, I have forsaken my duties to the law. You vex me. You –” He snaps his mouth shut and glares out over the river.

The night swallows the last echoes of his words. Gradually, Javert’s breathing slows.

“I remember how you spoke like this when you were asking for your dismissal,” Valjean says eventually. “You do tend to go on and on when you are at a loss, Javert.”

Javert opens his mouth but cannot think of an acid comment in response. He closes it.

“You are far too harsh on yourself,” Valjean says after a moment.

“How else must I be, Valjean?” he asks briskly. “It is like I told you. I must hold myself to the standards I hold everyone else.”

“Even when those standards have just been proven – perhaps not eminently false, but certainly worthy of a second look?”

“It is not the same,” Javert begins, and goes very still. Then he turns his head with the weighty slowness of a living statue.

“Well.” he says at last. “Perhaps I did not think of it quite like that.”

Valjean, to his credit, does not laugh. He rubs a gentle thumb over the back of Javert’s hand. Javert presses his lips together and hides his shiver in a tight shrug of the shoulders. He tries to collect his thoughts.

“You are two things at once, and it is ridiculous,” he mutters sourly. The urge to jump is ebbing. In its place, as it always has been with Valjean, comes the very familiar sensation of annoyance. It gives him the courage to turn and look straight at Valjean, to meet his eyes even as his heart leaps into his throat. “Why do you insist on doing this?”

“What?”

“Saving me. Keeping me from –”

“Absurd self-sacrifice, when the fault warrants far less?”

Javert swallows a protest and nods. “I suppose I am wondering why you insist on plying me with your mercy when I have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.”

The silence stretches on.

“It may sound strange,” says Valjean, after a while, suddenly sounding uncertain, “but I believe it is because – you know me. It is selfish. You have seen me at my best and my worst. You are a – reminder of certain things. And you are honest, and a good man. It would please me to see you alive and safe.”

Javert huffs out a breath he did not know he was holding.

“And whether I saw you at your best or your worst I plagued you,” he says. It is strange talking back and forth like this. There is an equilibrium between them, here on the bridge, a tentative balance, where they talk like friends and not – whatever they really are. Or whatever they should be. Enemies? There is no good word for it.

Valjean shrugs. “It pleased me,” he says lightly.

“You have very strange standards of pleasure if some specter of the past threatening arrest pleases you,” Javert grumbles.

Valjean says nothing.

It has somehow become infinitely easier and impossibly difficult to look at Valjean. His mouth is suddenly dry. “You said that I am a reminder,” he says slowly, remembering. “I would have thought that – You did not specify –”

“I remember being watched. Every time, Javert,” Valjean says. There is something in his voice that curls heat inside Javert. He is paralyzed. “Whether you watched me and saw a prisoner or a man of standing, it was always your eyes on me. And it was not as unwelcome as you would think.” Valjean is looking at him expectantly and all Javert can do in response is stare at him like a fish.

“I do not know how to make this clear,” says Valjean. Javert is distantly comforted by how the other man fumbles. “Javert, do you remember – in the hospital, in my office – there are a good many very selfish reasons I would like for you to continue living. This is not pity.” Valjean presses his hand. “Would you – come home with me?”

Perhaps it is meant to sound innocent but it reeks suggestively and suddenly Javert cannot stand it. He finds his voice. “Oh, this is too much,” he mutters. “I did not think –” He jerks away from Valjean’s touch, straightens up. His heart is racing. “Jean, give me time. I cannot go with you, not now. Perhaps – later. When I am not –” He gestures at himself.

Valjean is looking at him with such concern, it churns in his gut. He natters on. “I must think. Or – rather, I should not think so much. Or talk so much. Perhaps I should stop talking now. But do not worry about me. I will – I suppose I will find you. I always have.”

At Valjean’s hesitation, Javert adds, somewhat peevishly, “You have always asked me for more time, I think it is only just that I ask you for some in return.”

Valjean hesitates again. “When will you –?”

“Let us say three days. It will be appropriate.” He crams his hat on his head. All he wants to do is get away, to find someplace to hold his head still until his thoughts cease to whirl in circles. “You can hold me to this, Valjean,” he says, when Valjean seems about to speak again, trying to look as sincere as he hopes he sounds.

There is another pause, then Valjean nods. “I will look for you, then.”

Javert turns and walks away and looks back only once; the figure on the bridge is there still, watching him. He thinks of raising a hand and waving, then decides against it, turns and moves on.

 

Returning to work is surreal. He does his duties mechanically. He is glad that he had had the presence of mind to remove the letter to the Prefét from the guard-room before returning to his rooms that night; he does not think he could have withstood scrutiny from above for his uncharacteristic behavior.

To a casual outside eye he would seem, perhaps, not well served by sleep, but otherwise the same Inspector Javert as before. Closer observers would note a certain distraction, and pay attention to the things he mutters under his breath. “I am a fool,” would be one, and, “What could I possibly be, for him? Could he ever…”

At the end of the first day he is still caught in a storm of his thoughts. It is agony, at first, trying to tease out the strands of what may still yet be true from the shattered remnants of what he had believed in, but Javert knows somehow that the worst is over. He has lived past the temptation of the Seine and now something else is pulling him forward – in three days’ time he will see Valjean again and perhaps, by then, be ready.

Javert scowls. _Ready enough to do what?_ He still does not know what he expects might happen, or what Valjean expects of him; he had conceived of their next meeting as a way to reassure Valjean that he is alive and in no more need of rescuing. But Valjean had invited him to his home. And there was the matter of what he had said. _Selfish reasons_ –

Javert fiddles with the hems of his sleeves until a thread breaks loose. He swears, too loudly. An old woman passing by gives him a dirty look.

 

The second day is no better. He tries to think of things to say to Valjean. “There, you see, I am alive, and do not need your help, nor your pity, if this is what this is, trying to make me feel absolved of reproach for my idiotic pursuit of you,” he says out loud as he dresses himself and immediately shakes his head. “No, no, that will not do –”

 

“What sort of justice,” he seethes, “might contain both of us in peace? We both have our sins and our follies, that is true, I do not think either of us could ever deny that, but you would claim we are each as capable of salvation as the other and that I cannot stand. What could we possibly hope to share?” He glances up, meets the nervous stare of one of his men standing there with a report, and bites back a curse. “Thank you,” he says stiffly, and digs his nails into his palm.

 

“I am grateful for your offer of reconciliation.” It is stilted and stupid in his mouth. He stands rigid before the mirror on the washstand. “I trust you are doing well. I trust you have been doing well. How have you been? All these years. Living alone. Because of course contact with any other living soul would be a terrible risk, and you would bolt at the slightest hint of discovery.” Javert bangs his fist against the wall. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he snarls. His face in the mirror is haggard. He has aged ten years in this time. A bark of frustrated laughter leaves his lips. “Valjean.”

 

He cannot sleep. It is the second night in a row that sleep does not come easily to him but it is the umpteenth time he has lost sleep over thrice-damned Jean Valjean. He is sprawled on his bed in the godforsaken hours where night is turning into early morning and fucking his fist, the rhythmic slide of his cock through the grasp of his fingers is making him pant and somehow he is talking. “I would have thrown you at the wall and taken you and forced you to yield, brought you in line and shown you discipline – Christ –”

He bites down on his knuckles to keep from saying more as he shudders in release, grinds his shoulderblades into the mattress. The moment he drops his hand to wipe himself off, though, the plug is unstopped again and he is blithering on. “The criminal who is a saint, does this mean that now you will also be the man who might let me know I had pleased him – served him – I wanted to kiss your damned boots, and hold you as the holiest thing in the world. I, I…” He settles an arm across his eyes and groans. “This has been a mistake,” he mumbles. “Three days, what an unholy joke.” At least he sleeps afterwards.

But his dreams are thick with old confusions thought long-buried, temptations and longings, the unspoken thought – _why not both?_ – becoming well-spoken, eloquent, in the nighttime, teasing him with images and possibilities that leave him startlingly hard again when he wakes.

 

All through the third day Javert fidgets.

He had gone from previous stillness of body and motion of mouth to an almost complete reversal. Now his lips are buttoned save for brusque and distant answers, but his fingers stutter on desks and on his cane, he moves his hand from his pocket to his collar to his pocket again near incessantly, he shifts from foot to foot. Walking happens at uncommon speed. Some internal clock is hurrying as it nears the final tension in its spring, perhaps in an effort to hurry the clock of the outside world; Javert, never one to impatiently await the end of a workday, is at last conscious of why men anticipate it so eagerly.

At the end of his shift, as he is leaving, the fears rear up inside him and once again time is welcome to continue on its slow crawl, he wonders why he would ever wish for the seconds to pass quicker. He is walking directly to the Rue de l’Homme Armé, not bothering to stop at his quarters, resolve and anxiety alternately rising up and battling in his gut.

The late-afternoon daylight spreads golden across the pavement; a breeze stirs the thick air; faint clouds drift across the purpling sky. Javert reaches the door of Number 7.

It takes him a good several minutes to even bring a hand near the knocker and in that instant the door opens. Valjean is there. “Good evening,” Javert says automatically, and then the line between his brain and his jaw is cut and he can think of nothing else to say.

From the looks of it Valjean is much the same; he gestures awkwardly. “Will you come in?”

Javert enters.

The house is one that bears the marks of joint living, rather than solitary, and the thought is strangely comforting. Then it is slightly worrying. He looks at Valjean. “Is there someone else who –?”

“My daughter,” says Valjean. “Cosette. The boy you helped me bring to his family that night, she is in love with him, and she is at his bedside even now.” There is a twist to his mouth as he speaks of the two youths and Javert wants to reach forward and smooth it away. He does not. He shrugs off his coat; Valjean gestures to the pegs on the wall and Javert hangs it there.

Time passes in the barest of increments. Between each one there are potential motions neither of them wants to initiate. Valjean coughs. “Will you have some wine?”

Javert inclines his head. Valjean moves to the kitchen and Javert follows.

They have eaten and drunk. Both have studiously avoided drinking more than absolutely necessary. The cheese and bread is tasteless in Javert’s mouth; he chews automatically. Valjean shifts in his seat and begins to look expectant and he swallows.

“You have had your time,” Valjean begins abruptly. “The time, you said, to think, or perhaps not to think for a while, until you deemed yourself able to join me here.”

Javert thinks on what he did during those three days and has to fight not to blush.

“Well. You are here.” Valjean looks at him. “I do not wish to press you, or to have you feel beholden to me in any way,” he adds, a slight pleading note low in his voice, “but have you anything to say to me?”

Javert’s efforts have failed; the flush creeps up his cheeks. “I have thought of many things to say.”

Valjean waits.

Javert breathes deeply. “I have concluded that you are impossible and yet you exist. This impossibility extends to what might be a deeply misguided regard for me, which is – I do not know how wise it is, but it is appealing, and frightening, and Jean, there are hardly words for how frightened I am.” The words come out in a rush like some distilled essence of the last few days, newly tapped.

He looks sideways at Valjean. “I do not know how much you can trust me not to shy away from desire, whether yours or my own, because there are still histories you carry and that I carry too – and you have said you do not mind them as much but I am still afraid.”

Valjean relaxes, and something seems to clear from his face. “Of course I do not mind. But I would be lying if I behaved as though there is no fear on my part, either. There are many ways this could go quite badly.”

“Well, some may say much of the worst has already occurred,” Javert says, a touch dryly. The surrealism of the situation does not fail to move him. “I have arrested you on multiple occasions. You have had to talk me out of suicide. In Montreuil we had what can only be called a deeply unprofessional relationship. Perhaps this has all been good practice.”

Valjean laughs. He reaches to catch hold of Javert’s hand.

“I do not know how to begin this,” he says, a little helplessly.

Javert snorts. “I was about to say the same.” His mouth quirks. “Perhaps we ought to turn back the clock and act as though we are still in Montreuil, then; we had certainly managed to begin something then even if we did not actually talk about it.”

He had meant it facetiously, but from the way Valjean’s eyes widen he is not the only one surprised by how anticipation curls in his gut at the suggestion. His smirk fades. “Then –”

“I would be willing, Javert,” Valjean says. “Though there is one thing; if we are to pursue this sort of exercise, which –” He falters. “I do not know the words,” he mutters. “Javert, would you rather I be – Madeleine, or Jean-the-Jack?”

Javert is frozen for a long moment, then, “Madeleine,” he blurts out. “I would not hurt you, never. But what I have imagined with you above me holds less violence than if I were to treat you as a crook – that is, if you – it might be safer.”

Valjean studies him for a moment, then pulls his hand away; Javert’s heart sinks, but there is no horror in his face, no disapproval at Javert’s choice, only the sense of a man deep in thought. “I would like to hear what you have imagined,” he says at last, and Javert grimaces to cover his embarrassment.

“There was a great variety,” he mutters. Suddenly examining his nails seems most appealing. “Most involved some degree of…performing duties for you. Not always carnal. You would give me orders, much as you did as the Mayor anyhow, but you would tell me to do things like how I was to sit at your feet while you ate, and shine your boots, and – things. And in return you might praise me. Sometimes you would punish me for misbehavior, as is only just, but the main goal was that I pleased you somehow. Obedience,” he concludes. “And justified reward.”

Javert looks up. Valjean is staring at him with that curious cool heat that he remembers – “And you would look at me like that,” he adds, hushed. “You would look at me and smile and be glad I was yours – yes, like that,” the blood is roaring in his ears, “and you might –”

“Stand up, Javert,” Valjean says. Javert blinks at him in surprise, or part of him does; the rest has started moving automatically and has plucked him out of his chair. He stands at attention.

“Come here,” Valjean says. “Kneel.” Javert notes, under the strange cloud of calm settling over him, that Valjean’s hands contract spasmodically on the arms of his chair as his knees drop to the carpet. Valjean exhales. He looks wonderful. Javert gazes up at him.

“Kiss me,” Valjean orders. Yes, they are orders now. There is a weight behind them, almost tangible; they are to normal speech what oil is to water. They bloom in Javert’s mind and he relishes obeying. Even though he is still uncertain when it comes to this, he leans up, presses his mouth to Valjean’s, feels him sigh against him and respond. He recalls the kiss from years ago and tries to work what he remembers into this new one: he hopes fervently that Valjean will be pleased that he has kept the memory for so long.

Valjean pulls back. “That was very good,” he says quietly, and Javert preens. He catches Javert’s chin between thumb and forefinger.

“Javert,” he adds – and now there is something close to disapproval in his tone. Alarms go off in Javert’s head.

“When you asked for more time, you – you said it was just,” Valjean says, running his palm over Javert’s cheek. Javert almost frowns; there is a note of uncertainty behind Valjean’s words, and it is not expected. “I cannot argue with that. But Javert, I cannot deny, also – it was not kind.”

Now Javert frowns. “Oh.”

“And you want kindness,” Valjean says, and now the quiet steel is running beneath his voice again, and Javert breathes easier. “This is not the dispassionate justice you believe in outside of here, Javert, this is something very, very selfish.” He meets Javert’s eyes. “Is that correct?”

He cannot lie. “Yes, monsieur.” Javert nuzzles the hand at his face and hears a soft inhale; he kisses the fingers, then, inspired, touches his tongue to them, and the inhale from above is sharper this time. “But it is for you. Monsieur. And you may take the kindness away, at your discretion.” _Only do not take yourself away_ , he thinks. _That would be too cruel_. He does not voice these thoughts.

“Ah,” says Valjean, and he sounds distracted again. “I –” He shifts a little, and Javert sees the thick outline, the length swollen in his trousers, pressed against the fabric. “I have waited too long for this,” he says. “That is all. I am a selfish man too. I will not punish you for that. Javert, kiss me again.”

He does. It is a bit more frantic this time. His breath is coming faster and Valjean is not helping; they are grasping at each other’s shoulders, and Valjean is rubbing a hand along the line of his neck, he arches into the touch. They pull back for an instant but are kissing again almost immediately; Javert narrowly avoids cracking his skull on Valjean’s. Valjean pulls back and this time manages to stay there. He plants a hand on Javert’s shoulder and mutters “Stay,” and Javert flushes a little at his own eagerness. He settles back on his heels.

“Take off your boots, Javert,” Valjean says suddenly. Javert is halfway through the act before the strangeness of the request hits him. He looks quizzically at Valjean.

Valjean’s mouth twitches. “Let me see you take off your stockings, too,” is all he says.

Javert has them off in a few seconds more. He returns to his knees. He feels more exposed than he ought to, perhaps – but this is strange, he is not used to feeling rugs against his bare toes, and he shifts awkwardly. It is not as bad as being naked might be, but it is – diminishing. Perhaps that is Valjean’s intent. He looks up.

Valjean’s pupils are blown wide. “Take off your cravat, too. No –” He flicks his hand. “Arrange it differently. Untidy it.”

Javert does.

“See,” Valjean says softly, “you are making yourself improper for me. You follow my orders. This is – this is very good.” He is looking at Javert with a strange sort of awe and it unfurls something delightful in his chest.

“Javert,” says Valjean, “I would like you to touch me.”

His face is bright red, but his voice is steady enough. Javert glances up and sees Valjean look down, significantly, and spread his legs a little wider; there can be no mistaking his intent. Javert rubs his palms against his knees.

He reaches forward swiftly and undoes Valjean’s flies. It takes a moment’s adjustment, then his cock is out. Javert runs one hand down the curve of it. Valjean’s hips shudder, and his lips part, and the pleasure in his face is so obvious that Javert cannot help grinning. He slides his hand again and Valjean lets out a hiss. “Continue,” he gasps, and Javert obeys.

“Is there any way you would prefer me to do this, monsieur?” he asks quietly, after another couple of strokes; Valjean’s eyes blink open.

“Ah – yes – rub your thumb over – that is good, _Christ_ that is good,” he manages. “And a little slower, please – good. You are doing very well, Javert,” he adds, approval warm in his voice.

“I am glad to hear it,” Javert replies, and continues his work. But he cannot help but lick his lips as he watches fluid begin to leak from the head of Valjean’s cock, and when he meets Valjean’s eyes again there is some knowledge there that flips his stomach upside down. He pauses.

“Monsieur, should I –”

“Do you want to lick it?” Valjean interrupts, hushed and rough with pleasure, and Javert’s cock jumps. “You want to put it in your mouth?”

“It is not about what I want,” Javert says. “I will do it, if you ask –”

“I am asking you if you want it.” Valjean is calm and his voice is stone.

Javert fidgets. “Yes.”

“Go on.”

Javert shuffles forward, cranes his neck, and takes hold of the base of Valjean’s cock again. This is something he has even less experience with than kissing. It is certainly more terrifying than kissing. But it will please Valjean and that is what he intends to do. He opens his mouth and laves the head with his tongue, tastes salt and hears a choked groan from above.

Emboldened, he widens his lips and brings the head inside his mouth, adjusts his posture and swallows more of it, careful not to uncover his teeth. Javert brings his head up – thinking he might look up and ask for further instruction – but the slide of his lips over the shaft seems to be something Valjean enjoys because Valjean is grabbing at the nape of his neck and telling him, “That is good, that is good, do that again –” Javert bobs his head down and up again, and moves his tongue a little, and Valjean writhes, pushing his hips forward. “I will come soon,” Javert hears him say, “you are so good – you serve so well. You do this so well, Javert,” and the praise spurs him to try something he remembers from kissing – sucking lightly on his tongue – he tries it on Valjean’s cock and Valjean comes very suddenly. There are several consecutive spurts of wet heat in his mouth, Valjean gasping all the while, and then it is over.

Javert looks up, hesitating; Valjean is catching his breath, head still thrown back, and it is enthralling. After a while he looks down, sees Javert’s mouth still wrapped around him. “Ah – you may – swallow,” he says, sounding slightly uncertain, and Javert does. Valjean gently pushes his head off his cock and Javert straightens up, wincing at the slight crick in his neck.

Valjean fumbles himself back into his clothes. “Was that – beneficial?” he asks, and Javert can feel himself sliding out of that unhesitating state of obedience. He does not want to leave. He presses his lips to Valjean’s knee.

“Very,” he mumbles into it.

“I am glad to hear it,” echoes Valjean, a smile crinkling his eyes. Then he frowns and looks down at Javert’s lap. “Have you –?”

Javert is very tired. “Not unless you wish it,” he says. “Truth be told, to touch you was reward enough.” He is too tired to even be mortified at the things he is saying. “You do not need to exert yourself on this.”

Valjean shakes his head. “I would disagree.” He gestures. “Stand up, get back in your seat.”

Javert follows his orders, feeling himself sink back into that place where Valjean’s words are the only law he needs. Valjean rises and presses him back into his chair, kissing him thoroughly. “I am grateful for your service,” he says, as his hand finds its way into Javert’s trousers, and Javert makes an embarrassing noise and jolts his hips.

“Tell me when you are about to come,” Valjean says, almost as an afterthought, and then sets to working Javert’s cock. Javert breathes in the warmth of the shadow of his body, drinks in Valjean’s presence; it is not long before he is gasping, “Monsieur, soon –” and then he is squirming against the back of the chair, his mind going white.

Valjean has produced a handkerchief from somewhere and wipes him off as he catches his breath. “Thank you,” he manages.

Valjean just smiles and kisses him on the forehead. “Very good.”

The tenderness is like a drug. Javert has sublimated; he is mist in the morning. He is sure the expression on his face is ludicrous but cannot bring himself to care.

He comes back to himself eventually. Valjean is still standing over him, stroking his face and hair, making little shushing noises as one would to a child. Javert rolls his head, working out the soreness in his neck, and Valjean stops.

“You look different,” he says.

Javert feels the ruin that is the knot of his cravat, the way his mussed queue tugs at different parts of his scalp. “Yes,” he answers. He sits up properly and smoothens his shirt.

Valjean shakes his head. “No, I meant – your eyes are not so – adoring, now. I have never seen you quite like that. You are not looking at me like I am some sort of archangel of justice anymore.” Amusement tugs at his mouth. “I was about to say ‘as though I were Jesus’ but I suppose you would have somewhat different priorities, judging by your opinions on mercy.”

Javert snorts to hide the flush of mingled pride and embarrassment he feels. “Archangel of justice, indeed. What a look that would be. Wings on you would be appropriate.”

He adjusts his trousers. Something strikes him. He glances sidelong at Valjean. “Was it – good, then, to see me like that?” he inquires. “This servile – I do not know, no doubt a great many people would find it strange –”

“I am not a great many people.” Valjean caresses his face again. It is different now that his nerves do not ache for the gentleness in that touch; a certain hunger inside him has been sated, and his reactions are easing back to more sensible proportions. Javert does not move into the touch, only sits there and permits Valjean to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind his ear. “I cannot pretend to understand it completely, but I can also see the…appeal, and there is no question that this turn of events was enjoyable in my view.” He regards Javert. “It does not make you pathetic, if that is what you fear,” he says softly. “Nothing could – no. I am proud of you.”

Javert is at a loss for an appropriate response. He settles on rising from his chair and kissing Valjean.

“Cosette will be home soon,” Valjean says, when the kiss has ended.

“Ah.” Javert blinks. “You would rather I leave, then? You do not need to look so apologetic,” he adds, as Valjean persists in looking somewhat like a kicked puppy, “I really would rather not be forced to sit through supper with your daughter after what has happened today.”

Valjean colors. “Yes, well, there is that, too,” he mutters.

Javert waits but there is no further explanation. He shrugs and moves to the hallway; Valjean follows.

He is surprised when Valjean offers him his coat, but slides into it regardless. He puts on his hat and takes up his cane.

Valjean coughs. “Then I will see you again tomorrow?”

Javert can feel a smile begin to start at the corners of his mouth, and cannot keep it from coming into being entirely; it escapes through his voice as he answers, “Yes.”

“Well,” Valjean says quietly, “until then.”

Javert inclines his head and exits. Outside, it has become dusk. The summer air has grown thinner, colder. There is a slight but still unexpected pang he feels at the sound of the closing door – like loneliness, or a fall from a higher state of grace – he grips his cane and falls into an unconscious tempo as he walks home, mulling over his thoughts, the sound of his boots fading into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP THAT'S THE FIRST PORN-WITH-TWO-PEOPLE I'VE WRITTEN, UHHHHH
> 
> also i promise javert gets his top on at some point it's just that he gets scared of being a sadist (hi there, author's issues he hopes to resolve by writing this ha ha ha.......)
> 
> omg


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am changing the title I am going to call this "My Id: The Fic"
> 
> thank you Carmarthen for an awesome as heck beta and bless pacperson for talking about alcohol with me to help with metaphor construction

Javert is unprepared for just how maddening it is, the following afternoon, to have to sit in the same chair where not twenty-four hours past he had gasped and spilled into Valjean’s hand, and converse with the selfsame man whose cock he had sucked, as though none of it had ever happened.

At first he thinks Valjean is not doing it on purpose, that perhaps he does truly intend to ask Javert innocuous questions about his workday, and he holds his tongue, waits with decreasing patience for the time when the other man might suggest – something, anything. But then he notices how Valjean’s gaze flicks to his mouth, to his fingers, notes the forced casual quality to Valjean’s voice, the way his hands spread nervously on the tabletop. He is not alone in his desire.

This realization makes his patience wear even thinner.

“Valjean,” he says at last. Valjean blinks at him over the rim of a glass of wine. “If we do not cease this ridiculous charade in the next five minutes,” he says bluntly, “I think I may go mad.”

Valjean’s face goes through various contortions, and seems to be making a valiant attempt to mimic the coloration of a tomato, but, in the end, settles into a form that is somewhere between bemused, pleased, and hopeful. “Yes,” he says eventually, in answer to what, Javert does not know, he had not quite asked a question, but it is as good a response as he could have hoped for. Then Valjean straightens up and announces, “Come here, Javert,” and the order is soothing to Javert’s jangling nerves. He stands and rounds the table with all the speed that the frustrated arousal of the last hour grants him.

They tangle in each other. Valjean kisses him, and it sweeps away the lurch of anxiety in his chest in a tide of heat and sensation. Javert learns new things from Valjean with every moment: how different it is when Valjean has just recently trimmed his beard, where to better place his hands so Valjean will press closer, and also how to walk, letting himself be maneuvered carefully around furniture, until from the corner of his eye he notes dimly that they have entered Valjean’s bedroom.

There is a hardness he feels against his leg, which only confirms what he had previously suspected of Valjean’s equal frustration – he breaks away and asks, “Have you been like this all this time?”

Valjean makes an unsteady noise of affirmation in return.

“Well,” Javert says, trying not to dwell too much on the distracting nature of that thought – Valjean inquiring after his health, but all the while achingly stiff under the table – “I will take care of that, then, if you would like.” He places his hand flat along the solid outline of Valjean’s cock. “Monsieur,” he adds cautiously, and watches Valjean’s expression change.

Before long, Javert is on his knees again at Valjean’s command, kissing the fingers that are brought to his mouth, and the rest of the afternoon is thus spent learning what it is like to lavish attention upon Valjean’s hands – then his chest, then his belly, as they shuck off most of their clothes – then bringing his attention to bear on Valjean’s cock, sucking it slowly, sinking deep into a haze of obedience, learning from firm words or gentle touches on his temple or his chin exactly how Valjean likes it, what makes Valjean shudder, what makes Valjean’s thighs twitch under his hands, and what drives Valjean over the edge, finally, thrusting forward shakily into Javert’s mouth, hands fisting in his hair.

When Javert lifts his head away at last, Valjean looks almost as dazed as he does, and when he lays a hand on Javert’s head to pet it the hand trembles a little. Javert turns and kisses his palm.

“Very good,” Valjean says, unsteadily, “excellent – well done.”

And to his amazement, after a few short moments, Javert learns, too, the cautious touch of Valjean’s lips to his prick, a thick forearm braced across Javert’s hips to pin him to the bed – unnecessary, as Valjean had murmured, “Do not move,” before lowering his head, and Javert cannot disobey.

“Monsieur,” he gasps. His hands grasp at thin air. Valjean says nothing, only looks up, brow furrowed, then moves off and remarks, “Hands above your head.”

“I would not have touched you anyhow,” Javert says, complying, “that is not my place – ah, monsieur –” Valjean’s lips spread around him, so slowly, it is a gift, an astounding reward, and so warm and smooth and, Christ, his tongue –

It is too much. Another slow bob of Valjean’s head and he is blurting out, “Monsieur, I’ll –” and Valjean lifts his head away and he comes with a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You are very eager,” he hears Valjean say, when at last the tide has receded and he can feel something other than mindless pleasure. Javert flushes.

“I am sorry, monsieur,” he says shakily, opening his eyes. Inwardly, he curses his lack of restraint, but Valjean only looks amused, and to his relief Javert thinks he can also detect a hint of satisfaction.

“Well, we may try again later.” Valjean contemplates the drying mess on Javert’s belly, and Javert flushes again. “It may be beneficial for us both to teach you some control.”

That makes his cock twitch again, and Valjean laughs, and pulls out a cloth to wipe him off, and then they are kissing again and mussing Valjean’s sheets and his hair has become something reminiscent of a bird’s nest, but it is immaterial in the face of what Valjean is giving him.

Too soon he must leave, and he feels that strange lurch in his chest again.

 

Valjean keeps his promise, the next day.

“Take off your clothes.”

They are in Valjean’s bedroom again. Javert takes a deep breath and holds it before he complies.

It is for Valjean that he does this. It is something that will show deference to his wishes. Javert tells himself this as he removes his clothes, shedding each layer with growing discomfort; by the time he is completely naked, clothes in a pile, the mortification is threatening to edge him out of his state of obedience.

“Lie on the bed.” Javert moves stiffly to the bed and clambers atop it. “On your back.” He does so. “Come closer to the right side – no, my right, your left.” Javert shuffles over to where Valjean points. “And – raise your hands above your head.” This he does, relaxing; it is easier when the orders come one after the other, Valjean’s deliberate, neutral tones both soothing and brooking no argument.

When Valjean sits beside him the bed dips and his hand settles on Javert’s bare thigh. He twitches. He is conscious of the nearness of the touch, conscious of his naked body, the shocking vulnerability of his position.

“Javert,” he hears, “look at me,” and he does. Valjean moves his hand to where Javert’s cock lies against his leg, takes hold of it, and gives it a slow stroke.

Already beginning to stiffen, Javert grows harder immediately, shutting his eyes and letting out a sigh – “Look at me,” Valjean says again, gentle but firm. He opens his eyes. Valjean caresses his cock again, lightly, then lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his palm; when Valjean’s hand closes around Javert’s cock again the wet smooth slide of skin on skin makes him buck. “Monsieur,” he gasps, clutching mindlessly at the pillows, remembering just in time the command to keep his hands above his head. From the pleased look Valjean gives him, his efforts do not go unnoticed.

“Are you,” he manages to say, after another few strokes which send warm ripples of pleasure through his body, “would you want, may I –” Javert can see Valjean’s erection still pushing at his trousers.

“Perhaps later.” Valjean’s hand moves steadily, but the bob of his throat when he swallows belies his calm exterior. “This is – I enjoy this.” He gives Javert an appraising look. “Stay still. Do not move.”

Javert tries. Valjean rolls his palm over the head of his cock and he sucks in a breath, but forces his body to stay flat on the bed, does not lifts his hips into the touch. “Very good,” Valjean says, voice low and approving, and Javert lets out a shallow breath of relief.

Valjean strokes him properly, now, with workmanlike efficiency, and in a very short while Javert is nearly ready to spill. Then Valjean’s hand freezes. “You are close,” he says. It is not a question.

“Yes,” Javert tries to say, but it comes out as a croak. He licks his lips, and says it again. “Yes.”

“I had thought so. You breathe a little differently.” Abruptly, Valjean lifts his hand from his cock. The moments tick on, and Valjean does not move, only sits and watches with an expression of glassy-eyed fascination as the muscles of Javert’s sides begin to tense and quiver, desperately, fruitlessly; Javert’s cock twitches against his belly as the mounting pleasure recedes, replaced by an aching frustration. His fingers itch. “Monsieur –”

“Keep your composure,” Valjean murmurs. Javert wonders whether it is meant for Valjean or for him to hear. “You have done well so far,” he says, louder this time. “Stay still.”

He takes hold of Javert’s prick and strokes once more, and within another minute Javert feels himself nearing the brink again. His breathing grows irregular, his heart hammers. He expects it this time, but nevertheless, when Valjean’s hand drops away again, it is difficult to bear, and Javert makes a strangled noise and digs his fingers into the pillows.

“Gentle, now.” Valjean’s voice is mild, but his eyes are slightly feverish. He loosens his collar. “If you think you will come and I have not yet stopped, tell me,” he adds, and Javert nods jerkily.

Valjean begins again, stops again, the strokes increasingly short, the pauses between touches longer and longer. Each rising crest does not break but mounts ever higher. Javert feels he contains some sort of wild, rocking sea in a tiny cup, and the slightest motions will slosh it over the rim. His hands are opening and closing, balling into fists, then spreading flat and shaky over the cool linen. Valjean’s pupils are blown huge and dark and Javert knows what he must see, a mess of a man, sweating on the covers, leaking and desperate – “Very good,” Valjean is murmuring, “very good –” From the corner of his eye Javert can see that Valjean is rutting against the palm of his other hand, irregular little thrusts, which does not improve matters for his own self-restraint.

Valjean pulls his hand away for what feels like the thousandth time and Javert cannot stop himself from letting out a mortifying little whine. “Relax,” Valjean says, not unkindly.

“Monsieur,” Javert begs, past coherent thought, “please.”

“Quiet,” Valjean says, voice hitching, “yes – all right, Javert, you may – yes.” He reaches forward and takes hold of Javert’s cock again, the pad of his thumb skims gently across the oversensitive skin at the tip, and Javert comes. The shudders wrack his body, and despite his best efforts, his back arches; he lets out a strangled cry, loses himself in the immense, roaring surge of relief; he does not think he could have held back even if Valjean had not granted permission.

“Christ,” he hears Valjean say, from a distance, and opens his eyes in time to see Valjean, wide-eyed, shudder and come, jerking his hips forward into the clutch of his palm. The sight wrings the last bit of pleasure from Javert with an inhuman whine.

“Christ,” Valjean says again, panting. He reaches forward shakily and runs the tip of a finger down Javert’s length; unable to hold still, Javert convulses again.

At last he settles down, trembling, muscles like water. “Very good,” Valjean says softly, and, heedless of the mess of Javert’s spending, leans forward and kisses him. “Thank you.”

 

Javert can feel himself growing accustomed to touch, as time moves on, and becomes more practiced, nearly skillful, at being what Valjean needs. Valjean, in turn, is becoming more at ease with voicing his wishes, the tentative quality to his commands slowly dwindling with each successive one he makes.

It is with this newfound certainty that Valjean makes a request which surprises him.

“Are you sure?” Javert asks, slicking the oil on his cock with shaky fingers; it is not often that he questions a direct order – particularly not one given with such heat – but he had not expected this. It seems insubordinate, even though he is following Valjean’s orders; it has never quite figured in what he has imagined, and there is of course the worry that he will hurt Valjean somehow by doing this incorrectly.

“I am very sure.” Valjean’s voice is firm. He presses Javert to the bed and straddles his hips. “Now prepare me – if you would,” he says, and Javert reaches forward between Valjean’s legs, cautiously slides a finger inside, watches in amazement as Valjean’s eyes slide shut and he sighs in pleasure. “More, Javert.”

Valjean’s body relaxes under Javert’s ministrations, his cock slowly growing flush and swollen; it is not long before he strokes Javert’s chest and says unsteadily, “Now – yes,” and rises, guides Javert’s cock with unsteady fingers, and sinks down upon it, slowly, color inching up his neck when he is finally settled.

Javert is not used to this, not this slick heat, not the pressure, how different it is from lips or fingers around his cock. Silently, in the corners of his mind not overwhelmed with an almost painful pleasure, Javert thanks Valjean for the many lessons in holding back and not rushing with undue speed to a conclusion. Valjean at least has a few more years on his side to help him in this regard.

“Stay still,” Valjean says, voice hitching, and moves again, pushing back a little against Javert’s cock; Javert wonders whether pressing his hips up to meet Valjean constitutes disobedience, but from the looks of it, Valjean is not about to complain. He is biting his lip and his prick bobs obscenely in the air as he rocks back on Javert’s cock – “Ow,” he says suddenly, and Javert freezes, but Valjean waves a hand and mutters, “It is fine. It is only new, do not worry.”

Javert breathes again. Valjean collects himself, shuts his eyes and moves again, slowly this time, a roll of his hips, and Javert cannot stop himself from groaning. Valjean pays him no heed, and his movements grow more confident, and before long he is riding Javert steadily, taking his pleasure. Watching Valjean’s expression change from concentration to a slowly rising bliss, Javert bunches one hand in the covers and shoves the knuckles of the other one in his mouth; Valjean’s back arches, he makes a fascinatingly obscene noise, and Javert bites down, hard.

Valjean opens his eyes and drops his gaze to Javert’s. “Touch me,” he gasps, and Javert grasps blindly at Valjean’s cock, “yes – turn your hand like that – good,” and the word becomes a moan. When Valjean comes, Javert somehow manages to hold back, though it is a trial beyond anything else he has experienced, feeling Valjean spill on his belly and tighten around him. “You may come, Javert,” he hears dimly, and the permission is just in time; he surges and twists and spends.

 

They do not spend all their moments together jouncing on a bed. Conversation happens, sometimes, though in the beginning it is often stilted. But it becomes easier. They even find it in themselves to argue, now and then. Javert does not back down from debate the first time and he thinks it shocks Valjean a little to see how heated he becomes. It ends courteously enough, though Javert does not like how his passion creeps dangerously close to anger, anger that reeks of memories he would rather keep at bay. He would rather not raise the shadows of the past in this house. Since he is a very present relic of Valjean’s history, however, he supposes it is an ironic and possibly pointless endeavor – still, he continues to make an effort to skirt around certain subjects, and keeps his temper in check. Valjean does not seem to notice.

 

Javert arrives one day to the sight of Valjean wreathed in a halo of flour and sugar and sunlight. “I thought to make a peach tart,” Valjean says sheepishly, as the light slides down gold like honey, and Javert can only stare.

“I did not know you could cook,” he says at last, the honey oozing from his mind.

Valjean laughs. “We will have to add that to the list of things you did not know about me,” he says, and it would have sounded wry in any other mouth, could have sounded worse, caustic and cynical, backed with the weight of their pasts, but by some miracle of the man comes out as only teasing. It is a marvel. “It is only a recent hobby,” Valjean adds, as they enter the kitchen, and nods to where something sits blackened in a pan, presumably a failed attempt. “I feel it is never too late to learn.”

Valjean is quite disheveled; there is a smear of something glistening and sugary along his forearm and a dab of flour has found its way to his nose. In a very short while he has managed to lend Javert some of his dishevelment, rumpling both their shirtsleeves when he kisses him and printing Javert’s cheek with the flour from his nose. Thus they both require washing. In the bedroom, Valjean offers up his hands and face to the cloth Javert soaks in the basin on the washstand and Javert wipes him off, wets his fingers in the basin and cards them through Valjean’s hair to rinse away the dust. He loses himself in the busywork, until Valjean as clean as he will get without a bath, and when he is finished he holds still for Valjean to dab off the bit of flour on his face with a murmured, “Very good. Thank you, Javert.”

In the dining-room, the tart cooling in the middle of the table is small and round and golden like the sun. Valjean seats himself at the table and says, “Come here, sit,” gesturing at the floor near his feet, and Javert obeys.

Valjean cuts a slice of tart, sinks his fork through it, the crust crumbling a little, and turns in his seat to move the fork – with the bit of tart perched atop it – to Javert’s mouth. When Valjean places the piece on his tongue it fills his mouth with the taste of apricot jam, far sweeter than the things he usually permits himself to eat. There is the faint tang of lemon juice in the jellied glaze and the crust is rich with butter. When he crushes the soft chunks of peach against the roof of his mouth they burst and ooze sweet nectar. It is like eating summertime. “Would you like more?” Valjean asks when he swallows, and at Javert’s nod, moves his hand forward again.

So the time passes, in the scrape of the fork along the plate and the slowly growing fullness in Javert’s stomach. Valjean does eat, too, eventually; only a scanty bite, to Javert’s eyes, but he is not about to argue. What they are doing is a strange mix of innocent and very much not so. There are the implications of his open mouth and craned neck – there is the way he kneels and is fed by hand like a child – but he does not touch Valjean, and Valjean does not touch him. The gap is bridged only by the weight of Valjean’s eyes and the sweetness he ferries to Javert’s mouth.

“I did not think I would like this so much,” Valjean says, sometime after the fifth bit of tart. He reaches forward and wipes a smear of glaze from Javert’s lips. “But of course, the world is full of surprises,” he adds, and Javert lets out a huff of laughter. “And you are comfortable? This is all right?” Javert nods. “Good.”

Valjean does not request a hand or a mouth on his cock that day. The heat that builds between them is not the same sort of hot, panting need it has been before; it is something languid and banked-down, satisfied not with skin on skin but with Javert’s posture, silent and receptive, and Valjean’s murmured praise, the now-familiar rub of a thumb over the gray at Javert’s temple. They sit like this and underneath the warmth, Javert feels a faint, creeping panic. It is all too good – he leans his head against Valjean’s knee, tries to root himself in reality, awaken himself from this surreal dream. But this is reality. It terrifies him with how undeserved it is.

 

But one day Valjean tugs him close for a kiss that seems somehow distracted; there is a growing hesitancy to his movements, and he does not even seem to react when Javert’s lips slide over the head of his cock. At last Javert lifts his head and asks, “Monsieur, am I doing well?”

Valjean sighs. “You do, you…I only…” He swallows. “It has occurred to me that I have been neglecting some of your – needs.”

Javert blinks. “Do you think I do not enjoy this?” He has not even undressed, yet, waiting for Valjean’s word – he nods at his lap, where a bulge is becoming steadily more visible. “It is no great trial for me to – restrain myself, until your requests are met.”

“I meant.” Valjean fidgets. “What you had mentioned. On the first night. When I am – when I am the Jack.”

Javert freezes.

“Monsieur,” he says at last, numbly.

Valjean makes a helpless little gesture. “Do not think you have done badly,” he says, “or that this is not satisfactory – it is. It is more than I could have dreamed of but –”

“But,” Javert repeats. His hands tighten on his knees. “But, monsieur, you do not know what you ask.”

Valjean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please, Javert, do not call me that.”

“What?” It takes Javert a moment to comprehend, and then he feels his cheeks heat. “It is only a word.”

“It is a word you give to one you respect and exalt and I –” Valjean breaks off. “I am trying to talk to you. Let us not talk in – this position, at least.”

The moment is broken; there is not much else Javert can do. He sits back on his heels. Valjean tucks his cock away and says, “Please – Javert – sit,” nodding at the space beside him on the bed.

Javert rises reluctantly and sits, tight-lipped.

They are quiet for a moment. Then, “You are forgetting who I am,” says Valjean.

“What?” Javert repeats. Today is not turning out as expected.

“You are forgetting,” Valjean says, “the – the other parts of me, the crook, the man I once was.”

You are wrong, Javert wants to say, but how can he tell Valjean that he does see those parts of him – that he has dreams, still, even now, of Valjean’s blood in his mouth, Valjean bound but defiant and laboring against the ties, Valjean kneeling as Javert takes his pleasure? It is an even worse insubordination when he considers all that Valjean has done for him these last weeks, all the good he has done through his life –

Valjean is still talking. “You will make me forget, yet, with how you serve. It is…this is a gift I did not…I do not know how I have come to deserve this.”

“You are good,” is all Javert can manage to say. And then, unable to stop himself, he adds, “You idiot.”

Valjean looks stricken.

“You think you do not deserve having your wishes met,” Javert continues. “Half the time I do not think I even deserve to be in the same room as you. You have given me such trust and –” He flounders. “You ought not to trust me,” he says desperately. “Do you understand? You should not permit this.”

“Why?”

Javert shuts his eyes. “Because I am sick,” he says, low and fast, “and what I want to do to you is even more repellent in the face of all that has already happened. You cannot frame this as a reward, this is not how it goes, the subordinate does not exert his will over the –” He cuts off short, not sure what he was about to say; the word _Mayor_ rises shamefully in suggestion.

“Subordinate?” He can imagine Valjean’s furrowed brow. “Javert, that – that is not all you are.” A sudden irritation bursts in Valjean’s voice. “You have said it yourself, too, Javert, I vex you because I am more than one thing, and I am telling you it is fine, wanted, even, that you see me for who I am entire!”

Javert’s eyes flash open. “But you are too human, now,” he says, trying to make Valjean understand. “I wanted to treat you like – a thing, a number. Now you are Valjean and there are things I did not know before and I – I cannot. I will not cause more pain than I already have.”

“And if I want it?” Valjean’s voice is challenging, now, and he is glaring outright.

Javert laughs fitfully, low in his throat. “No, no,” he says. Valjean looks different. Or it is how Javert is looking at him, now, with eyes that seek for points of vulnerability, points of pain, in the line of his jaw and throat, in the spread of his shoulders. It makes him want to look away but he cannot. “You cannot want it. You have no conception of the sorts of things –”

Valjean opens his mouth and begins to say something but the parting of his lips stirs something harsh in Javert’s gut, makes him remember blood in his mouth. “I do not want to hurt you,” he says again, horror mounting in his heart – and accompanied, to his dismay, by anger.

“You will not.”

“You are so assured,” Javert hisses. “Well, then.” He steels himself, then reaches forward and digs his fingers behind Valjean’s ear, into the sensitive meeting point of his neck and the corner of his jaw.

He had expected that Valjean would be properly horrified, and strike his hand away; he had expected this would be the way to show Valjean the extent of his depravity, to warn him, so at least he would not be so eager to indulge at least this side of Javert’s desires. He does not expect to see Valjean’s nostrils flare and hear him suck in a sharp breath – a noise of pain – but Valjean does not move, he is still there, he meets Javert’s wild gaze with wide eyes, and after an unsteady moment, deliberately leans into the bruising pressure of Javert’s fingertips. Javert cannot believe it.

“How,” he says, eloquently. His fingers twist, almost of their own volition, and he bites his lip when Valjean makes a little noise that is not entirely devoid of pleasure. “Christ, I –”

Abruptly terrified, he tears his hand away. He is hard, appallingly fast, blood pounding rapid and violent. “Stop me,” he says.

“No.” Valjean lifts his chin and Javert wishes he did not want to bite that exposed neck. “Do what you will.”

It is the last straw. Javert’s fingers twitch, and he gives in.

“Get up,” he says, and they rise together. “Tell me the moment I go too far, Valjean,” he adds desperately, hand creeping towards Valjean’s face again. “Tell me quick, do not hesitate –” He kisses Valjean and Valjean is sharp, challenging, beneath his mouth; it stirs a harsh delighted fury in him, and he throws caution to the wind, grabs Valjean’s shoulders and pushes, marches him backwards until he slams against the wall.

He has wanted this – overpowering Valjean, though he knows the tables could so easily be turned, making Valjean gasp into his mouth when he tightens his grip on his shoulders. It is intoxicating in an entirely different way than before. If obeying Valjean is intoxicating like a fine wine, slow and warm, then indulging in these desires is like absinthe on an empty stomach – sudden, dizzying, and shocking in its violence.

Javert breaks away, turns them both, and shoves down, forcing Valjean to his knees in the middle of the floor – he tries to think. “Right. Yes.” Now that Valjean is at his mercy there is only the question of what he might dare to do. He considers all he has wanted, all the things that might hurt Valjean in more ways than the physical – in the meantime he is conscious of how Valjean’s body is tense under his fingers; there is barely restrained strength humming there and a savage gleam in the eyes and – he is hard – Javert comes to a decision, lifts his boot, and places it, gently and deliberately, against the bulge at the fork of Valjean’s trousers.

The reaction is immediate; Valjean’s entire body stiffens and arches, and his hands leap forward automatically. “Hands behind your back,” Javert says quickly, and Valjean freezes, then slowly moves his hands to comply.

Javert wonders, dimly, as he cautiously pushes his foot a little harder against Valjean’s groin, whether this is how Valjean feels when Javert is pliant and biddable under his hands – but Valjean has never done anything like this to Javert, has never deliberately drawn pain as Javert does now, pressing as much as he dares on that sensitive spot and watching Valjean squirm and shake. He eases off and hears Valjean inhale; he puts more weight against his boot this time, and Valjean’s exhale turns into a sudden cry, his face twists, and Javert can tell he suffers. But Valjean breathes deeply, meets Javert’s eyes, and does not ask for him to stop.

Javert shakes his head. “You do not need to pretend you like this,” he says helplessly, and pulls his weight away, but when he does, Valjean follows, rising forward on his knees to drag his clothed cock against Javert’s boot. It is base and obscene and an undeniable sign of his lust. Javert’s mouth goes dry.

“Fuck,” Javert mutters. He grabs Valjean’s hair and tugs. Valjean rises slightly, letting out a choked grunt as the weight of Javert’s foot against his cock increases. Javert can see him try to find equilibrium between the two sources of pain, and twists a little harder on Valjean’s hair, watches the resulting grimace with a horrible satisfaction. “This isn’t for you,” he snaps, horrified almost immediately at what he says, but it is too late. “What you want is immaterial. You are mine – for now – I have dominion over you –”

He plays Valjean like a puppet, then, alternating yanks on his hair with careful shoves of his boot, forcing Valjean to choose whether to rise and drive Javert’s foot against his cock, or to shrink away from the downward pressure and thus subject himself to the grip on his hair. Javert watches Valjean’s face change with each new sensation, almost forgets to hate his desires when they make Valjean look like this, raw and lost, breath ragged. He has seen Valjean in pain before, in the distant past, suffering under the lash, but this pain that spreads across Valjean’s face is mingled with a strange frenzied joy and Javert finds it difficult to stop. Distantly, Javert is aware of how hard he is against his trousers, but Valjean’s gasps and cries do more to work him than a touch ever could. Though, of course, a touch would not go amiss – making a decision, he frees his cock, and with another sharp tug on Valjean’s hair, spends to the sound of the resulting choked cry.

Panting, he lets go of Valjean’s hair. The momentum is faltering, now that his lust has been satisfied, and a sinking feeling is growing in his stomach – but he musters up the energy, snaps, “Get yourself off – do it,” and pushes his foot against Valjean’s cock again. Valjean ruts, awkwardly, face contorted.

Suddenly Javert is exhausted, sickened; he reaches forward to caress Valjean’s face, brushing at the locks of hair that stick to the sweat on his temples. “Valjean,” he says. “Valjean, look at me.”

A peculiar bliss is in the gaze that meets his, under the pain and discomfort; it is dignity in the midst of debasement, a sight that makes Javert’s throat tighten. Bile rises at the back of his mouth. “Forgive me,” he manages. But everything is confused, and Valjean does not look as though there is anything to forgive. He is moaning, hips jerking, and his eyes have squeezed shut; after another moment he lets out a sharp cry, and pushes hard against Javert’s foot, shaking with the effort, spending in his trousers.

It is far too soon for Javert to come again, but his cock certainly makes the effort, twitching hard and making the muscles of his gut spasm. It dizzies him further, and he takes his foot from Valjean’s groin and almost collapses, falling to his knees and holding onto Valjean’s shoulders like a man drowning.

Valjean is still trembling under his hands, and Javert presses forward and kisses him in supplication. “It is enough,” he says. Breathing hurts; he swallows and tries not to panic. “You are all right. You did not ask me to stop. That was – that was what we had agreed, yes?” He hardly knows what he says anymore. Valjean looks dazed, and a little pained, still – to Javert’s horror, he realizes his knuckles are white on Valjean’s shoulders, and he flings them down, wipes them on his trousers. “Tell me you are all right,” he demands.

Valjean’s eyes focus. Then his arms are around Javert, nearly crushing him, and a kiss is pressed sweet and firm to the side of his neck; Javert buries his face in the crook of Valjean’s neck, breathes carefully, and shuts his eyes.

“Yes,” Valjean says, after what seems like an eternity. “Yes. I am fine.”

Javert lifts his head, blinks his eyes open, and there is still light in the room, there is the ugly desk and the wardrobe with the scuff on the corner. He has had Valjean kneeling, has ruined his trousers with the shove of his boot, has marked him with bruises and yet –

And yet the world continues to turn, and Valjean is still here. The warm weight of him against Javert’s body is proof enough. The prod of his nose against Javert’s neck as he kisses him, again, is proof still further; it is not a touch of forgiveness or pity, but – of _thanks_.

Javert swallows; his hands smooth across Valjean’s back. Though he cannot feel the scars through the layers of Valjean’s clothing, he knows they are there, has felt them before. If Valjean desires pain in the same way that Javert has wished to inflict it – it may be strange, but there is no argument he can conceive against it, not now, not with Valjean’s permission.

“Then you would not be opposed if, in the future,” he begins, “if I wanted to – but –” The knowledge of the ropy scars across Valjean’s back gnaws at him; his fingers press, shakily, into the cloth.

“This is an indulgence,” he mutters. “You are generous to a fault. If you will allow me this, then – I must know what will be too much, or I will be too damn afraid. I will not hurt you in the way that –” He pauses. “I will not be more of the past than…than you wish me to be,” he finishes lamely, suddenly wishing to see Valjean’s face. He pulls back.

Valjean’s expression is steady and calm; he no longer looks as lost, and it reassures Javert. “We will learn,” he says simply. “I do not quite know what will hurt me more than it might – please me – but we might try, and I will be sure to tell you if it is too much.”

Javert exhales. There is too much to think about now; the aftereffects of his efforts, of the powerful mix of fear and arousal in his blood, have drained him utterly, and he is in no shape to argue or press Valjean further. “Very well,” he says simply.

They hold each other a moment more, then Valjean says, with a faintly forced casualness, “I am famished. Let us – I have some fresh rolls, and sweet butter.”

The suggestion is enough to set Javert’s stomach grumbling; he disentangles himself and rises to his feet. Valjean does not follow immediately, though. For a half-second he remains on his knees, wincing, shifting his right leg experimentally. Then with a grunt, he rises, and Javert notes the stiffness in his motions, how he nearly stumbles before catching his balance again.

He fights down the pang in his chest. Valjean looks up slowly when he is fully on his feet.

“I will be careful,” he promises. It is woefully inadequate, at least to his ears. But Valjean smiles and he thinks – perhaps – it may be enough.


End file.
